The Walking Dead Chapter 1
by TheScarJade
Summary: It is about a sixteen year old girl called Ofelia that will interact with the original character of the show, The Walking Dead. If you are looking for erotica, this is not that.


The Walking Dead Fan Fiction

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is from the perspective of a whole new character that I will be adding to the series that will interact with the characters of the original series. Also I will not be writing erotica, only situations that involve violence, coarse language and sexual references, no in depth sex scenes. This story will take place two years into the global outbreak; half a year after the end of season 5. With that in mind let the story of Ofila begin.

Chapter 1

The many stored sketchbooks piled into a corner of my old room are filled with people wearing grins, wild and domestic animals, characters from books re-imagined, plants and action scenes that had spawned from my head. Those sketches were innocent and pure, everything I was. My entire being. Now, the only sketchbook that I consider to own is inside my little one room cottage that I call the witches hut, beneath a dozen or so books covering all types of topics and subjects.

I have not opened it in a while due to the amount of work I have on my plate as well as the need to not make another mess in that tiny cottage of mine. But I am sure if I opened it again I would know what I'd find. Dead white eyes writhing in even deader faces, bodies hanging like a devil's sick of sin, half a human body alive but has the life of plants and moss that had attached itself to it, people trudging half asleep, blood gargled up out of a pair of lips, hands that seem to be washed with blood and ripped flesh, a girl that looks as if she had been swimming in wine.

The bag full of books beats against the wood of the scabbard for my katana, which sticks into my spine with each beat. I jog and leap from rooftop to rooftop, the water skin, that hangs from a thin leather strap tied to my belt, flaps in the relaxed wind. Curved and flat concrete tiles tap once against each other as my feet press onto them as I go by, the sound echoing through the air. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of crickets chirp in harmony with the sound of the concrete tiles as well as the groans and moans of the dead that maunder to the south of the town. They go to where the familiar rat-a-tat sound had come from not too long ago. The long thick blonde braid that flaps in the wind behind me, that is called my hair, bounces up, down, up, then back down again against the bag full of books.

Runs over the years has turned into from food and medical scavenges to book checkouts and borrows, searches for food that are unattainable by a garden as well as hunting, dog food and cooking utensils. This is what happens when you get relaxed in this world, you stop relying on acting like a raccoon rummaging through a trash can and start to explore homes and work buildings searching for anything to your liking.

Much has added to my knowledge by becoming relaxed; how to garden, fish, heal cuts and other wounds, how to climb buildings swiftly without bothering with stairs or ladders. Useful things that make life in this town easier.

I reach the astronomy like tower of the library and creak open the latch in the stained window of the sunroof. It has a man atop a dead dragon that holds his overly large sword high in the air, depicted on it. Lowering feet first, that instinctively wrap around the rope that dangles bellow, I gain easy access into the brightly lit Victorian styled library. Once I have acquired a firm hold upon the rope by the hands I uncross my legs around the rope and re-cross them away from it except at the ankles. I reach down one hand approximately a foot away from my other, one after the other, while keep my body upright. I make my way down swiftly and safely until I feel the floor beneath my steel capped boots.

Striding out of the cylinder shaped section of the library also known as the astronomy tower, I find my way to the front counter that is to the left. I set the bag full of books on the counter and take out book after book, chucking them into an ever growing pile of bad books behind the counter.

Back at the witches hut there is a place for everything, if something has no use to me I will not keep it. For example these books. Most of them are fiction; chose them to serve me entertainment at my down times. They have not done well in serving that need of mine so there is no need to keep them. There is no use burning them either when I have plenty of tinder at the witches hut for fires.

Bad books, they either have terrible plot lines, endings, characters or writing, no plot line, just plan boring and/or unnecessary romances.

Done returning the books I search shelf after shelf for a new book that sticks out.

What do I want to learn? What do I want to read? Fiction or non-fiction this time? I never liked science so that is a no. A maths textbook? Sure I was basically a maths expert for my grade when I was fourteen but I do not want to set out more work than I already have. History... hmm.

While chin is held between the index finger and thumb of my left hand, I glare at the section of war books from modern to ancient times. Some covers are worn, others glossy from a plastic covering stuck to it. Civil wars, world wars I and II, short and long wars, even social and political wars.

Three books on ancient civil wars are selected, another three are of war poems, and stuffed into the bag of books. These will satisfy me for now.

"THIS WAY! THERE'S A BACK DOOR!" The muffled yells causes my monolid eyes to widen and my teeth to bite down on my full bottom lip ripping dry skin off.

Although I have modified that back ally to the back door to be full of traps only the dead will be fooled by, who ever these people are will easily be able to get in.

Suddenly a baby cries out.

Expeditiously I move to the rope before processing what I have just heard. The back door bangs open as I reach the rope. No thought carries itself through my mind as I drop my bag of books, to move quicker, and curl my legs around the rope, climbing in a panic. I reach the latch as the back door slams shut.

On the roof once again the groans and moans of at least a hundred or two of the dead sounds in the air. I knew there was a horde nearby but I did not think it would be possible they could get into the town so fast. The groan of metal adds to the overall monster groaning.

Slower now, I ease my way to the other end of the library. The roof has sharp angles due to its Victorian design. It would of been bright red once but over time it seems to have faded. The tiles are small, flat causing no sound as I step on them.

By the time I get to the other side of the library the gate to the back ally had broken, three of the dead are up against the three horizontal metal poles with kitchen knives drilled into them. They are completely unmoving by themselves. A dozen others are pushed by against them thrusting, stumbling to get through. Although it is doubted they would be able to get through the three metal poles, I had drilled in wooden spikes at the corner of the ally just in case.

Down a drain pipe, I scurry until I am only a metre and a half above the dead. Unsheathing Lilith, my katana, I drop, driving her straight into the skull of the dead that has the most space.

I spring into action. Before any of the dead react, Lilith is out of the head of the one I just killed and slicing through the heads of the ones that stand on the broken gate. Blood splatters everywhere, on the walls, into the air, but particularly onto myself. As the dead stacked up against the three poles turn around their heads tumble to the ground, drenching me in their rotten blood. The creamy colour of the stone wall of the library is now stained crimson.

Broken through the ally entrance the dead are more spaced apart creating more a reaction time for them to notice my presence. It takes longer for their heads to have an afflicted injury upon them by Lilith than it did for the ones in the ally.

First thing to do, is not corner myself. So I fight my way to the middle of the street by cutting through dead after dead, either in half, horizontally or vertically, stabbing in the heart with the sharp side pointed to the sky and lifting Lilith to the sky, or slicing some degree of their head off as if they were a fat piece of salami.

This situation draws me back to a white classroom with light brown floor boards and ballet bars. A teacher in front of a hot room of students who wear black skirts that touch the floor, where everyone held wooden katanas. I was amongst the students when I was fourteen.

Using everything I had learned from those sword fighting classes, I use every move that involves affliction to the head. That is unfortunately the only way to kill them. Sometimes I just wish I could come across an enemy with just as much skill in sword fighting as I am, just to make things more interesting. That is however not the case now. Throughout my trips across the country with group after group, no competitor had crossed paths with me or at least one without his blade.

When I came across this town I had just been separated from a group, not a large one. We were camping a few miles up north and during the night while I was asleep, not on watch, they left without a blink of an eye. As silent as a mouse fart. Why they left? I do not know. Probably because I was a teenager and was disadvantaging them no matter how many times I had saved their lives from a horde or just a small group of the dead. I would return to them after a fight, depicted as the girl drenched in wine in my sketchbook, with a few small supplies I had collected from picking off the dead. Each time they would stay away from me. I never knew why.

When they left they only left my backpack and Lilith behind, not even leaving any water nor food. The next day I found that they had joined the walking dead.

Sweat mixes with the dead's blood that cover my face like a mask. Heavy breaths puffs out of my mouth as my chest shakes as it rises and falls. I have no idea how many I have killed now, judging by the piles it is probably fifty to seventy. The dead that still come tumble onto the piles of the dead, dead, reaching and gargling over their strangled sounds from not knowing how to use their tongues. By staying in one spot only drops of blood entered a circle of visible concrete.

Over at the horizon the sun is reaching for its secure edge, searching for the moon. The light on the streets, buildings and surround trees start to tint pink as the air chills for the night to come.

Loosing form, I step a few steps backwards trembling from exhaustion. Bit by bit, I recover by ingesting gulps of water from the water skin.

Breaths even again I find the familiar path up the side of the Clover House Inn and onto its flat roof. Red patterned prints come off my steel capped boots, onto the white roof. Again, I start up the routine of leaping from roof to roof.

Cicadas sing and a crock of a frog echoes from the distance as well as scrap of roof tiles. Stars shine bright, the lake's surface is still like glass, the full moon melts its milky light into every face it can find. At this time, predators prey, prey runs, tonight is a hunting ground. Leaves blow in the soft wind and clouds crowd at the horizon. The stench of blood is heavy in the air alongside the rot.

This night would be perfect except for that stench; it fills my nostrils, gets stuck in them. Hair that used to be blonde, now stained and clammy from blood, sticks to my face, neck and back. I lift open the latch to the astronomy tower, leaving a bloody handprint before easing through the gap. The full, heavy leather satchel bumps lightly on my hip with every foot lower I get. Soon, the scrapped clean soles of my steel caped boots touch the library's wooden floors again.

Cautious not to make a sound, I crouch above the bag of books stuffing it gently with the few books that had fell out previously. Sliding the bag of books onto my back, crushing Lilith and the braid there, I replace its' old spot with the satchel.

With a quiet sign I look up to the stained windows with the moon shining ever so brightly threw it. I am in plain view, very easy to spot. The rope is covered with bloody handprints from the climb down; distinct at the top, barely visible down the bottom. By morning these people will know someone had broken in here overnight but not just by the different bag laying by the rope. The climb back up will not be as quiet as the way down due to the first jump up because the bag of books is only half full, which only has about five books inside, unlike the satchel that is full to the brim. Those five books only take up half the space in the bag meaning that the books will bang against each other.

Rubbing my neck I gaze into the library's main section only to find a pair of eyes are staring at me. They are bright unlike mine and belong to a boy. His hair reaches his shoulders, which are not overly wide, in soft waves. It also flares out as if he had worn a hat all day. His face is pale.

I give him a girlish smile, that probably looks devilish with the dark and blood washed over me, before making a nosier escape than I imagined.

That night I rest at Clover House Inn instead of making the trip all the way over to the witches hut.


End file.
